Over the years, the coffin had split, probably due to the extraordinary depth of the interment. For flu victims, the burial was twice as deep as usual, for fear of contagion. Oakley had decided to leave the coffin in the ground because of the split in the lid. There had been a discussion over whether to take samples through the split, but in the end the heavy lid had been raised and samples were taken directly from the corpse. They had been expecting to find a well-preserved cadaver, but it was heavily decomposed due to the cracked coffin.
Oakley had explained that they hadn’t expected to find the virus intact, but that it should have left its “footprint” in the lungs. He said there were opportunities using molecular biology to re-create the virus, or at least look at its genetic makeup. A full sequencing had not been achieved so far because only fragments of the virus had been recovered from other exhumations.
Sinclair had half listened to Oakley’s discourse on influenza. He had examined the grisly contents of the coffin as the team biopsied the lungs. There was no sign of a deed, or of any kind of box or container.
Now, hours later, in the kitchen, Sinclair was only half listening to the chatter. He was slicing up a pear and wondering where the deed was. Tom, Marian, and Cordelia had all exchanged a look of disappointment when he and Oakley had come in from the day’s work. Sinclair gave them a small shake of the head. Nothing, he mouthed silently. But no one mentioned it. Out of deference to the exhumation project, they were all waiting until after Oakley left to discuss the deed.
“This could give us a little more to go on,” Oakley was saying with enthusiasm. “The samples were not great, but I think they are usable.”
Sinclair observed Oakley with interest. Clearly his dedication to his work was fierce. Oakley was whippet-thin and highly energized. His conversation displayed a rigorous mind, and there were flashes of impetuousness that often came with real genius. In his early forties, he was still almost boyish, with a tweedy kind of rumpledness about him. His sandy hair had no trace of gray, and his face was yet unlined.
“When did the first influenza appear in civilized society?” Cordelia was asking.
“No one knows. These diseases are ancient, prehistoric. The word influenza is from the Italian influenze di freddo, or ‘influence of the cold,’ “ said Oakley. “The word first appeared in the English language in the 1700s.”
“How much genetic data did you get from your exhumation last year in the Arctic?” asked Tom.
“Not all that much. We expected the bodies to be buried in the permafrost. But that wasn’t the case.”
“What happened?” asked Cordelia.
“Well, the coffins had risen gradually over time. Or another possibility is that they hadn’t been buried deep enough in the permafrost to allow the virus to survive.”
“Where did you do the exhumation?” asked Jim Gardiner.
“Svalbard, on the island, in the town of Longyearbyen. The people were miners in the Arctic Coal Mining Company. Actually, there were seven young men who were signed on to work in the mine, but they contracted Spanish flu on the ship and died when they got to the mining camp. They were buried in the company cemetery.”
Cordelia, Sinclair, Tom, and Marian all looked at one another.
“The company cemetery? Did you say the Arctic Coal Mining Company?” asked Cordelia.
“Yes, why? What’s the matter?” asked Oakley.
The story came together at a rapid pace. If Oakley had not been there, they never would have found the answer.
Sinclair leapt to his feet and started to pace. “I can’t believe the coincidence of this!” he said. “Perhaps we’re looking in the wrong grave!”
“Didn’t Elliott Stapleton go to the Arctic in 1918?” asked Jim Gardiner.
“ ‘The deed is buried with my partner’—the partner in Svalbard!” said Cordelia. “He didn’t bury it here. He buried it up there!”
“Percival Spence,” said Jim Gardiner.
“The other partner!” said Cordelia.
“The silent partner,” said Gardiner.
“Silent as the grave? That kind of silent partner?” asked Sinclair.
“. . . who died of Spanish flu, just like Sir James!” said Cordelia.
“There is a Percival Spence buried there,” said Oakley. “At least that was the name on one of the gravestones we found.”
“That’s it!!” said Gardiner. “By God, that’s it!!”
“There were no remains in the grave,” said Oakley. “When we dug up the coffin, it was empty.”
“Empty!” said Sinclair.
“Yes, it was an empty coffin,” said Oakley. “Except for some document we found inside.”
They all froze in shock. Oakley looked around at them and his face lit up.
“Oh my goodness, it’s your deed!” he said, finally understanding.
There was not a sound in the kitchen. No one breathed. No one blinked.
“Where are the papers now?” Sinclair asked quietly.
“We put them back where we found them. They were in a leather folio. We just closed up the coffin and buried them again.”
It was past midnight by the time Oakley had the sample cases loaded into his beautiful vintage Bentley. He and Gardiner would ride back to London together. Gardiner gave Cordelia one of his trademark bone-crusher hugs and climbed into the passenger seat. Then, just before they pulled away, Gardiner turned the hand crank, rolling the window down.
“I’ll only need a day or so to get that paperwork together. You can claim the deed in Norway by Friday.”
“Thanks so much for everything, Jim.”
“God, I hate leaving you. Are you sure you’ll be all right?” He had already asked that twice, but he still looked concerned.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Besides, John won’t let me out of his sight.”
He nodded and waved as the car pulled away. Cordelia stood on the front steps of Cliffmere watching the red taillights of the Bentley disappear down the long drive. She watched as the car turned onto the main road. Then it was quiet. She stood outside a few more minutes, in the cool of the night. There was always a twinge of sadness watching Gardiner go.
But this time she walked back into the house with the comfort of knowing that her family was waiting for her. It was the first time she had ever felt that way.
The small Tudor study was aglow with the fire in the grate. Tom and Marian were sitting in the armchairs, while Sinclair paced up and down.
“Well, I don’t see a choice. We have to go to Svalbard,” Sinclair was saying.
Cordelia entered and perched on the arm of Marian’s chair.
“If we let the Norwegian authorities dig up the deed, they could try to claim it, or the Russians could steal it from them,” Sinclair said. “We have to be there when they open the coffin.”
Tom spoke up with authority. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea for Cordelia to go.”
“She should stay here with us,” added Marian.
Marian took Cordelia’s hand, an unconscious gesture of protection. Sinclair looked down at them.
“Marian, she can’t stay here,” he said kindly. “Don’t you see that?”
“We wouldn’t let her out of our sight,” assured Marian.
Sinclair took a chair next to them.
“I know you would do your best to protect her,” Sinclair said, “but it’s so dangerous. Someone got into the library just the other day.”
“What about asking for police protection for Cordelia while you go to Svalbard?” suggested Tom.
“No police,” said Cordelia. “I’ll go. It’s my land. It’s my deed. It’s my problem!”
“How can you get there safely? People have been following you all along,” Marian pointed out. “They will come after you and you will be putting yourself in danger, especially in an area as remote as Svalbard.”
“We could go quickly and quietly and nobody would know,” suggested Cordelia. “A two-day trip, just up
and back.”
“Hold on, you need to talk to Oakley first,” Tom spoke up. “You need to find out about what kind of contagion risk you are taking by digging up that site.”
“But the coffin is empty! There is no risk,” said Sinclair.
“You should not go, Cordelia,” said Marian. “John can go, but you should stay here.”
Marian looked to Sinclair for agreement. Sinclair stood in the middle of the library as they all stared at him.
“I would feel better knowing that she is with me,” he said honestly. “I want to watch out for her myself.”
Cordelia spoke up firmly. “That decides it. I am going with John.”
London
Charles Bonnard was waiting in the lobby of Claridge’s when Cordelia and Sinclair came into the hotel.
“Sinclair!” he called when he saw them. “Over here.”
Charles looked as handsome as ever, but there was a pinched anxiety to his face and a nervousness to his movements. He rushed up to Sinclair, clasping him in a quick hug. Sinclair hugged back, slapping Charles’s back affectionately.
“Thank God you are here. I was worried,” Charles said.
Cordelia was quiet, but Charles broke the ice and rushed over to give her a quick squeeze. She hugged him back, a bit awkwardly, and stepped back. He was beaming at her with unrestrained delight. Then he was in motion again, grabbing her bag and rushing over to press the lift button.
“Good to see you, Charles,” said Sinclair.
“How was the country?” He looked them both up and down as they waited for the lift.
“It was absolutely wonderful. I finally went home to Cliffmere,” Cordelia said, and looked over at Sinclair with a smile.
There was no hiding the love that passed between them. Charles looked up at the lift light and pretended to follow the progress of the floors. But when they were alone in the lift, he shifted to a conspiratorial tone.
“What’s up?” he asked Sinclair.
“Let me get Cordelia settled and then we can talk about the foundation.”
“Right,” said Charles. “I’m just down the hall in room five twelve when you are ready.”
“Give me a few minutes,” said Sinclair, as he opened the door to his and Cordelia’s room. He dropped the suitcases in the middle of the room and turned to her.
“I’m going to talk to Charles for a moment. Do not open this door for anyone. If the maid service knocks, just tell them to come back later.”
Cordelia nodded.
“I’ll double-lock the door when you leave,” she said. “And then I’m going to have a nice bubble bath.”
“In that case,” Sinclair said with a smile, “I won’t be gone but a minute.”
Charles was at the window, looking out at the darkening street, when he heard Sinclair knock.
“It’s open,” Charles called.
Sinclair came in quickly and shut the door. There was something furtive about his movements. Charles noticed but said nothing. Sinclair would tell him in his own time.
“You seem well,” Charles lied.
“It’s been a little rough,” admitted Sinclair. He hesitated a moment and then went on. “You know, Charles, first of all, I have to thank you. . . . Cordelia . . . well, she’s wonderful.”
“I am so glad to hear that. When I met her at the gala, she seemed like the kind of girl you would really get along with.”
“Well, your instincts were perfect. Thanks for pushing me to go on that cruise. I was pretty cut up over Shari, and I really wouldn’t have done it.”
“I never push you, I just suggest.” Charles smiled. “So tell me what is going on.”
He walked over to the couch and sat down. Sinclair continued to stand, restless and agitated.
“Let me see . . . well, we decoded the note, and it said, ‘The deed is buried with my partner.’ So we figured it was buried in Sir James’s grave.”
Charles looked at him in astonishment.
“You’re making this up.”
“No, I swear. So we exhumed the grave to see if it was inside.”
“Sinclair, I am starting to worry about you. You can’t go two weeks without digging up dead people.”
“I guess you have a point.” Sinclair forced a laugh.
“So what happened?”
“There was no deed in the coffin with Sir James.”
“So what now?” asked Charles.
“Now we think we know where it is. But it’s turning into a scramble. A lot of people are looking for the deed.”
“Like who?”
“At first we thought it was a handful of governments—you know, the Norwegians, the Russians, and now the U.S.”
“The U.S. cares about land in Norway? What for?”
“The International Seed Vault—a repository for all kinds of plant seeds. Each country keeps its own seeds in the vault. It’s sometimes called the Doomsday Vault; if there is a catastrophe, there will be seeds to replant all the different species in the world.”
“Like what kind of catastrophe?”
“Pandemic,” suggested Sinclair. “Or some other situation where there is some kind of world collapse that wipes out populations or agriculture in certain areas.”
“So this thing is built on Cordelia’s land?”
“Yes, and we are now attracting what my spook friend is calling ‘independent actors’—probably the Russian mob.”
“Your spook friend? You mean a spy?”
“Thaddeus Frost is . . . well, not really a spy. We checked him out—or Cordelia’s lawyer did. He’s some kind of undercover operator for the American government. I called him after they tried to kidnap Cordelia.”
“Kidnap Cordelia!” Charles leaned forward in surprise.
“Yes—last week in London. Which is why I called you.”
Charles sat staring at him. “I feel like a fool for asking, but what can I possibly do?”
“I need you to help me persuade Cordelia to lie low and disappear for a week or so while I go to Norway to get this deed. We think the deed is buried at another grave site.”
“You going to dig that up too?”
“I might have to. But Cordelia can’t go; it’s too dangerous. She needs to stay with you.”
“Of course she can’t go. Are you insane? After someone tried to kidnap her?” said Charles heatedly.
“That is what I am saying. But I am terrified to leave her alone.”
“Shouldn’t she stay at Cliffmere?”
“No, it’s not safe. Someone already broke in there. And her lawyer, Jim Gardiner, normally would take care of her, but he is going to have to go up to Norway with the paperwork to claim the deed.”
“So you want me to stay with her,” Charles concluded.
“Yes. If you would.”
“All right, I can do that,” said Charles. “Where should we stay? Here? Her town house?”
“No. You have to be completely out of sight. Where nobody can find her. I would say that you should stay at my place in Ephesus, but even that isn’t safe. They caught a Russian mobster staking it out.”
Charles got up and started pacing.
“John, this is really serious. You are way out of your league. No offense, but these people are professionals.”
Sinclair stood in front of Charles.
“Let me put it this way: I need you to do this. I just don’t trust anyone but you.”
“What about the police?” asked Charles.
“If I had trusted law enforcement last week in London, she’d be gone right now.” Sinclair looked distraught.
“Look, I am happy to help. But where do we hide her?”
“What about your place in Capri?” suggested Sinclair.
“The Villa San Angelo?” Charles considered for a moment. “It seems good. It’s remote, that’s for sure, but the local people always talk. If I show up with Cordelia, it won’t be much of a secret for long.”
“Right,” said Sinclair. “I hadn’t
thought of that. Especially with Brindy just down the road from you. It would be all over town by lunchtime.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” admitted Charles.
“Well, how about you two stay with your mother in Paris? Nobody would look for her there.”
Charles considered that for a moment, sitting down again.
“That is a great idea!”
“Your mother wouldn’t mind? It could be dangerous.”
“Are you kidding, she would love it. What drama—a beautiful young American on the run.”
“She would have to keep quiet,” Sinclair cautioned.
“Oh, no problem. We’ll tell her it’s top secret, all very hush-hush,” assured Charles.
“Great,” said Sinclair. “Great! It will take some convincing to get Cordelia to agree. We can work on that later.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Charles.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sinclair said. “You could take the train from London to Paris.”
“That’s easy enough,” agreed Charles. “But won’t she be recognized if they are hanging around looking for her?”
“We would put her in disguise—change her hair, that kind of thing. It would be a bait and switch. The two of you would leave together, just like a normal couple staying at the hotel.”
“If you say so,” said Charles.
“After you leave, I’ll head up to Norway. They will follow me instead of Cordelia.”
“That should work. When will we tell her?”
“Tonight we have to meet Paul Oakley, a virologist at the Royal London Hospital. Let’s go out to dinner afterward and suggest it to her. I definitely need backup. Cordelia can be very stubborn.”
“Then you are well matched,” shot back Charles. “So when do Cordelia and I head to Paris?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“OK, I will call my mother, and then I’ll hop out to Selfridges to pick up some kind of disguise. It’s just down the block.”
“Nothing too flashy, Charles. She has to look different, but also blend in.”
“Don’t worry. I have some ideas.”
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